


Watching You

by Hannatude



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, How it all began, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannatude/pseuds/Hannatude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's watched her from the beginning. She'll watch him until the end. They see themselves reflected in each other's eyes, and only then do they stop hating what they see.
</p>
<p>
➵A love story told in alternating viewpoints↢</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Watches Her

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying a new style of writing - not sure if there's a term for it, but I like it. Yes, this will _eventually_ fit into the [Tower Texts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3140480/chapters/6809096) universe, but it's an entirely separate entity and can be read on it's own.
> 
> Also, this is going to be an unabashedly Clintasha fic, canon be damned. 

* * *

  
He watches her. She is his mission, his target. He has never missed a shot, no matter the situation. He won't miss this time, either. He looks at the footage Coulson sent him one last time before leaving the hostel, gear packed in the duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

  
He watches her. She seamlessly blends into the crowds, calmly and quietly making her way through the bustling dockside market. Her red hair is covered with a scarf, her curves hidden by the loose clothing she is required to wear by the laws of the locale. He nearly loses sight of her several times as a result.

  
He watches her. She's led him on a merry chase, but he's climbing through roofs and rafters with an ease borne of years spent under the Big Top. She's shed her disguise in favour of her uniform - black, not unlike his own, although their motifs couldn't be more different - and she begins taking down the corrupt politico's camo-clad bodyguards with a lackadaisical expediency he knows in his soul.

  
He watches her. She's sizing up a man twice her size, her green eyes betraying nothing. The man proves to be more thug than soldier as he pulls a knife from his boot and begins slashing it through the air, leering menacingly. She sighs and moves and the man is on the ground, breath no doubt gurgling wetly around the knife stuck in his throat. He raises his weapon, lining up the shot.

  
He watches her. She works her way through another ill-trained assailant almost effortlessly. His face itches when a wild swing catches her on the side of the head and blood begins running down her face. She ducks down, grabbing the knife from the dead man's jugular, and throws it at her attacker, sending it hilt deep into his gut. He has to stop himself from whistling in appreciation of her skill.

  
He watches her. She stands in the centre of the room, silently surveying her work. Her body slouches as she sighs deeply, and this, too, is a feeling he knows all too well. She begins rooting around in the pockets of the fallen men, searching for the key to the building, blood running down her face and neck like a waterfall.

  
He watches her. She's lethality and danger and beauty given flesh. The thought of ending her life rankles him - he now understands why the animal tamer refused to put down the lioness that attacked a roustabout, all those years ago. He begins lowering his weapon when a man suddenly bursts through the door, gun in hand. He acts on instinct, sinking his arrow through the other man's eye and into his brain, killing him instantly. He then realises it's the politico.  
Who he was supposed to keep alive for questioning. Oops. More paperwork for Coulson.

  
He watches her. She locates him almost instantaneously, her cold eyes meeting his as she says something. His eyes shift to her lips out of habit before flicking back to meet her gaze. He blows out a breath and makes a show of laying down his bow before gesturing to the ground. She thinks it over, her eyes never leaving him. After what feels like an eternity she nods tightly, and he gets to work shimmying down a support beam.

  
He watches her. She holds a bloodied knife in her hand, and her posture is deceptively casual - she's ready to gut him like a fish at a moment's notice. He really hopes it doesn't come to that. He holds his hands up in the universal nonthreatening position as she studies him. She's young - seeing her age in her file is different from seeing it on her face. She's young, and she's burnt out. The parallels between the two of them would be amusing, if they weren't so damn sad.

  
He watches her. She's listening to his offer - he has a first aid kit up in the rafters, and he'll help her clean up her wounds and, if she wants, he can get her out. _Out_ out, he says, nodding at the hammer and sickle emblazoned across her breast. She sneers and her lips move so fast that he doesn't have a hope in hell of reading them. He blinks owlishly as she continues glaring at him before she sighs so deeply her can feel her breath on his face. Her mouth moves again, slower this time, and he realises she's agreeing to his terms. He makes his way back up to his nest and tosses the kit down to her, breaking down his bow and stowing it in his duffle with the rest of his gear.

  
He watches her. She takes a sanitizing wipe from the kit and tears open the package with her teeth, extricating the alcohol soaked square and shaking it out to its full size. She then begins scrubbing at her face with it with brutal efficiency. He holds out his hands again and she rolls her eyes before tossing the bloody square of cotton at him, her lips moving slowly. He's able to make out some of the words - they're mostly insults - but he takes her lack of real violence as permission.

  
He watches her. She sits like a stone as he cleans her wound, even as he bites his lip in commiseration for the burning pain he knows she's feeling. He tells her that they need to get out of the area - he needs better lighting to stitch her up. She rolls her eyes again and stands, going over to the crate where she stashed her disguise. He shrugs and turns his back to her, both to give her privacy and to show her that he trusts her. When he turns around, she's long gone.

 

 


	2. She Watches Him

She watches him. He doesn't seem to realise that she's following him - and has been since the warehouse. She scoffs at the fact that he is a man who spends most of his time in small, dark spaces, and yet he hasn't noticed her eyes on him.

  
She watches him. He has inserted his earpiece - a very bulky device for a superspy to wear, and she should know - and is talking with one of the local merchants, his American accent tainting his otherwise flawless Arabic. They laugh at some inane comment, and she hands him his purchase, wrapped in paper. He places it in his duffle with great care.

  
She watches him. He returns to his hostel and stands in the entryway. " _Are you coming along, Widow?_ " he asks - in Russian, no less - before entering the courtyard. He knows she's there, and she isn't sure what to make of that. She's just so damned tired of all of this... So she follows him.

  
She watches him. He opens the door and gestures her in- " _Ladies first._ " - so she enters. She looks around the room, bemused to find it perfectly normal - no bugs, no cameras, and no interrogation equipment. Perhaps he intends to keep up this caring charade so that he can eventually play the "good cop" when she is interrogated?

  
She watches him. He begins unpacking his duffle, taking out his anachronistic weapon and laying it on the small table gently. " _You can take a shower,_ " he says, nodding towards the small washroom. " _if you want to._ " His continued use of her native language is... Surprising. He speaks it haltingly, but he speaks it all the same. Does he think her incapable of speaking English?

  
She watches him. He moves to the small dresser, pulling out a few articles of clothing and tossing them over his shoulder. She catches them without a thought. " _These should fit you._ " She looks at the bundle of clothing in her hands. They are soft, and smell of detergent. " _Sorry I don't have..._ Uh.." He stops. "Underwear."

  
She watches him. His body relaxed as she turned to enter the washroom - but that could be a ruse, perhaps he hopes she'll let down her guard if he lets down his own? She considers the compact shower for a moment, inspecting the shower head for any signs of tampering. Seeing none, she removes her overclothes and peels off her uniform - her nose wrinkling at the smell - before stepping under the lukewarm cascade.

  
She watches him. He is sitting at the small table, staring at the screen of a laptop. She blinks as she sees that his hearing aid is gone - but then notes that he has switched out the large, clunky device for an inconspicuous inner ear model. He seems to feel her gaze and looks up from his work. "Deaf people seem harmless." He says with a shrug. She nods, conceding his point before realising what she's just done. He smiles and winks as he stands to go take his own shower. She takes his place at the computer the moment he closes the door, disabling the attached webcam with a hard press of her thumb.

  
She watches him. He took quite a long time in the shower - she had heard him sing a song about saying farewell to a girl named for a dessert from his country, cars, alcohol, and death at least twice. His voice was... Not unpleasant, she decided. He was no Chaliapin, though. She is sitting on the tiny sofa when he exits the bathroom. "I'm Clint, by the way. Clint Barton." He says as he towels off his dove brown hair. He looks at her anticipatorily. "Also known as Hawkeye..?" He frowns. "Have you _really_ never heard of me, or are you just being obstinate?"

  
She watches him. He shrugs and returns to the computer and frowns. "Aww, webcam, no..." He mutters as he resumes his previous activities. He begins humming and soon starts singing a song about New York, seemingly without realising he is doing so. She feels her eyelids begin to slide shut and clenches her hands into tight fists several times to wake herself up. "Widow, I swear on a bottle of vodka - like, super strong Russian vodka - that nobody's gonna kill you if you go to sleep." He says, his eyes still glued to the screen.

  
She watches him. His well-muscled shoulders, cornflower blue eyes and reassuring grin are the last thing she sees before she begrudgingly allows her eyes to close and she falls asleep.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint was singing ["American Pie"](https://youtu.be/cvK2FeaJQFA?t=10s) and ["New York State of Mind"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eO37Hft3B8), respectively. (Click for videos)


End file.
